


Goodbye in Three Acts

by FlockOfPigeons



Category: Blaseball (Video Game)
Genre: BUT MAKE IT ANGSTY, let's talk about alternates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-25
Updated: 2021-02-25
Packaged: 2021-03-15 19:40:45
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,574
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29688957
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FlockOfPigeons/pseuds/FlockOfPigeons
Summary: Jesús isn't from around here, and in crossing the divide between realities, he lost more than he likes to think about. But today, that's all being dragged to the forefront, like it or not. It might actually be for the best.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 10
Collections: Canada Moist Talkers Fanfiction





	Goodbye in Three Acts

“You’ve lost muscle mass,” Mooney says matter of factly, movements precise and methodical as ever as she inspects Jesús’s outstretched arm, poking and prodding at his bicep. “What exactly have you been doing over the break? You know I asked you to-”

“Keep in shape, Doc, I know,” he says with a resigned sigh.

“Don’t interrupt,” she snaps, but her eyes are unfocused. There’s a detached softness, almost, to her expression, as if her mind is elsewhere. He’s noticed it more and more, how her grief has blunted previously sharp edges.

“Sorry,” he grumbles, and she drops his arm. She huffs in response.

“So,” she continues, pen hovering over her notepad, “how frequently have  _ they  _ been making appearances?” She doesn’t need to say their name - almost pointedly avoids it, in fact. This makes sense, Jesús supposes. Even after eight seasons and a siesta, none of the Talkers like to mention Tyler.

He shrugs. “I kinda stopped keeping track, Doc.”

“So, more than before.” He winces.

“I guess, yeah.”

“Don’t  _ guess,  _ Koch.” Her tone is firm, reproachful. “Count. When do they show up? Daytime, we’re looking at distracted games, nighttime, loss of sleep.”

“When  _ should  _ they show up, then?” he asks, all too aware of the sharpness in his voice. 

“Ideally, they don’t.” 

“That doesn’t seem fair.”

“Unfair? They’re a  _ ghost,  _ Koch. They’re  _ dead,  _ and it’s better for all of us if they stay that way.”

“What the hell does  _ that  _ mean, Mooney?”

His eyes meet hers, the tension between them palpable. It’s then that Jesús recognizes the emotion locked in her gaze. She’s afraid. “This is different from what happened with Jaylen, Doc,” he says, looking away. “This isn’t a  _ choice. _ ” He realizes his mistake as soon as the words leave his mouth, as Mooney’s lips twist into a snarl he witnesses in the corner of his vision.

“We didn’t know, Koch!  _ I  _ didn’t know! We were lost and  _ angry  _ and-” she seems to realize that her carefully curated facade has fallen, and she steps back from the exam table that he’s seated on. “They were  _ my  _ losses, Koch. Ones I should have factored into the equation beforehand. I wasn’t thinking clearly, and now I am, and I won’t make the same mistake again.”

“They were all of our losses, Mooney.”

“They weren’t yours.” The words hit him like a slap to the face, and he’s left reeling for several brutal moments. “I’d been with them since the beginning. You’d had them three seasons.”

“No, Mooney,” he snarls back. “Actually, I’d had them just as long as you had. And then I lost them.  _ All  _ of them. I came here and left them behind, and then I watched them burn, and I lost them again. Tony and Bates and Workman-”

“ _ Enough _ .” Mooney’s voice breaks. “Enough, Koch.”

“Fine,” he says, standing. He moves to leave, and then turns back. “And Doc? Don’t you dare talk to me like I don’t know loss. Never again.”

The door shuts behind him with a slam that echoes through the hall.

\---

Jesús’s breath fogs in the crisp not-quite-spring air as he storms out of the arena, climbing the stairs up from its sublevels. To his surprise, Ziwa is seated at the top of them, staring out at the waves that threaten to overflow into the parking lot, bolstered by the half-hearted February thaw. “What the hell happened in there?” they ask, trying to sound nonchalant, but their concern seeps through regardless. 

“None of your business,” Jesús says. He feels bad, but he’s got reason to hide the details from them. They don’t know that he’s carrying their dead best friend around in his head.

“I mean,” they say. “It kinda is.” He opens his mouth, and they hold up a silencing finger. He heeds it out of habit, instinct telling him to listen to his captain. “Why was I listening? I assume that’s what you were gonna ask. Either way, I’d feel weird not explaining myself on that one.” They reach into their jacket pocket, producing a pill bottle that they shake slightly, and it emits a loud rattle that echoes down the stairwell. “Came for a refill.” He stares quizzically at the pills, knowing better than to ask, but they answer before he’s finished weighing the pros and cons of doing so. “They’re suppressors. Keeps my venom in check so I don’t kill anyone bumping into ‘em in the locker room.”

“Oh.” His voice is quiet. “I didn’t know-”

“I was venomous?” Their grin is slight, but sincere. “Well, now you know my secret. I don’t like talking about it, to be honest with you. People start walking on eggshells around me, just in case. What if I forgot this morning? What if they don’t work? I never forget, and they do work, of course. Mooney doesn’t half-ass this stuff. But that doesn’t stop people from being scared.” They look at him pointedly now. “I know what it’s like for people to be afraid of you, Jesús, and Mooney sounded scared. You can talk to me about it. You probably should, actually. It’s not healthy to keep things…” they shake the pill bottle for effect. “Bottled up.”

Jesús pulls his shoulders forward, curling in on himself. “I can’t.”

“Can I ask you a question, then?” They ask. “Or how about this - I get three guesses. Three guesses, and if I don’t get it, I’ll shut up about it forever.”

“I suppose,” he says warily.

“Okay,” they say. “Guess one.” Their face softens. “It’s because you’ve got Tyler Violet’s ghost bouncing around in your skull, and you think that if I know it’s gonna hurt me, because they were my best friend and my gods know what else, and everyone seems to think that the barest spark of hope that they’re still out there will be enough to push me over the edge.” Jesús nearly jumps out of his skin.

“How-”

“Firstly,” Ziwa says, counting on their fingers, “because our old Jesús smelled like Axe and shitty coffee, and you smell like lavender. Ty always had a thing for lavender.” They sound almost wistful now. “Secondly, because Jenkins told me that I wasn’t in their reality, so I kinda guessed that I wasn’t in yours, either. But when I asked Jenkins about Ty, they said that they were still around in Cascadia. When I asked you, you made up some excuse about being late for something or another, and wouldn’t look me in the eyes for a week. Thirdly,” they pause, the tip of their right index finger resting upon the ring finger of their left. “Vapor told me. Don’t be mad at him about that, please. I asked why you were so weird about Ty, and he told me I shouldn’t have asked you. Which was enough to tell me that something weird was up, because he could have just said that they were dead, but he didn’t. And I may have pushed him too far, and he caved. That’s on me.”

Jesús sits down two steps beneath them, back against the concrete wall, side by side save for the difference in elevation. “How long have you known?” He asks. They shrug.

“Three seasons, I guess? Something like that.”

“I should have told you. I’m sorry. Mooney just didn’t think…” he trails off, and Ziwa shakes their head.

“Nah,” they say, “Mooney was right. I didn’t take it well, and when the Hall Stars showed up, I took it worse. Hope is an awful thing to have.”

“Do you…” he’s not sure if he should make the offer, but he does anyway. “Do you wanna meet them? My Tyler?” Another shake of Ziwa’s head.

“I don’t think so. Or, maybe, I do but know I shouldn’t. Tyler and I were… volatile, to tell you the truth. I loved them , sure. Still do, in a lot of ways, but I love them with the knowledge that we would have burnt out. Ironic, I guess.” They run the back of their hand across their eyes, sniff, and then straighten up. “Besides, my Tyler is still out there. And who knows, maybe one day they’ll be back, and we can burn that bridge when we get to it.”

“The saying is  _ cross _ -” He starts, and Ziwa barks out a laugh and gives him a playful slug in the shoulder.

“I know, Jesús.” Their eyes are damp, but their grin is back full force. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For?”

“For letting me talk about them. Nobody wants to. I get that.” They lean back, head tilted upward to look at the startling blue of the sky. “I don’t really want to, usually. But today… it was nice, is all.”

Jesús proffers a slight smile of his own. “Yeah. Hey, Ziwa? About that burning out thing. I think I kinda get that.”

Their eyebrows lift. “Oh?”

“Can I tell you a secret?” He asks, and he does, and he leaves with an address written on the back of a coffee shop receipt.

\---

Greer has very pointedly not given her address out to any of her teammates, save for two, and one of them is in the Garages’ shadows. She won’t admit that she misses Morse, but she will admit that it was easier to coax herself out of bed on game mornings knowing that coffee and a free ride were on the other side of the door. Otherwise, she’s not sure she would have shown up after the Book opened, and who knew what the alternative was. The only other person with her address is Ziwa, who insisted on keeping records as part of their captainship duties. What good it did, Greer wasn’t sure, but Ziwa was so godsdamned annoying about it, and promised not to give it out. It’s this culmination of factors that makes the knock on the door a surprise.

Not even delivery people knock on her door. She’s got a reputation.

According to said reputation, she opens the door with serrated teeth bared in a sneer. She sees who it is, rolls her eyes, and sighs. “The fuck do you want, Koch? It’s dinnertime, and you don’t wanna see me when my dinner is postponed.” She leans forward, bringing black eyes down to the level of his green ones. “I get cranky when I’m hungry.”

He swallows hard. “I just… Just wanted to say…” he shifts awkwardly. “Look.” He sighs, and seems to steel his resolve. “This isn’t gonna make sense, and you can forget that I ever said it, but I just wanted to say goodbye.” With that, he turns and starts to walk away, but doesn’t get far before a tattooed hand lands on his shoulder, prompting him to let loose a startled squeak.

“As if,” Greer says. “You don’t get to show up at my house - and believe me, unless Morse is outta retirement and is showing up with a double double in the next five minutes, Ziwa is going to get  _ hell  _ for that - spout cryptic bullshit, and then leave without telling me what, exactly, the fuck you’re on about.” She thrusts a thumb over her shoulder. “So get in here, and consider yourself goddamn lucky I’ve got leftovers.” He follows her in like a chastised puppy with its tail between its legs.

Greer rummages around her fridge before pulling out a half-empty package of ground beef, which she eats out of the styrofoam carton by the forkful. Jesús tries not to stare, instead pointedly looking at the cardboard cutout in the corner of the room. She stops eating briefly to gesture at him with the fork, saying, “I don’t have all evening, bud. Fish and I are having a pull up contest in half an hour, and I am  _ not  _ letting them beat me again, fire eater or not.” She glares at the beef she’s holding. “And if someone feeds them a lit candle halfway through it again, I am calling victory by default.” The shift in topic seems to be enough to pull Jesús out of his laserlike focus on the cutout, and he looks back at her.

“Back in the Frigid Hush, that was you,” he said, pointing at the cutout. “And like. She wasn’t… cardboard. Flesh and blood. And the  _ you  _ you,” he points at her now, “wasn’t there.”

“Makes sense,” Greer says around a mouthful of meat. “Got that on my nineteenth birthday. Gag gift, I think. I only know because someone sharpied birthday wishes -” she says the phrase derisively - “on the back. We all changed after the flooding. None of us really remember who or what we used to be. But I’ve got that -” and here she actually  _ throws  _ the fork, which sticks into the wall beside the cutout’s head with a  _ thud _ \- “to remind me. Every day. No photos, no videos, but since that  _ thing  _ became some fucked up part of me, it stayed.” She cocks her head, thinking. “I’m much cooler now, arguably, but I still can’t help but feel like I lost something. Wasn’t my choice.” She slaps her now-free hand against the tattoos on her bicep. “That’s why I’ve got these, you know. They’re a change. By choice.” Jesús watches, fascinated. It’s the first time Greer has seemed like anything other than a  _ carnivore  _ to him. Everyone, he supposes, has some degree of fragility. They all just hide it differently.

“But you ain’t here to talk about a piece of cardboard, are you?” Greer asks, that glimpse of vulnerability drawn back once more behind a curtain of scales and sharp teeth.

“Not- Not really, no.” Jesús had been hoping not to have to explain. It was hard, maybe harder than he had expected. “But me and the Greer there, we were…”   
  


“Together.”

Jesús nods, the movement measured. “Yeah.”

“So you wanted closure.”

“Yeah.”

“I guess that makes sense,” Greer replies. “So, you got it?”

“I… guess?” Jesús realizes he’s not sure. “I don’t really feel…  _ different _ , I guess. Kind of sad, maybe.”

“Uh. Okay. Cool, I guess?” Greer says, but she’s looking at him strangely.

“What?” he asks.

“Look,” she says, and it almost sounds like she’s forcing herself to say the words. “You may not feel different, but you are. Me and the… old you would never have had this conversation.”

“What was he like?” He’s not sure he wants to know, but does know he’d regret not asking.

Greer thinks for a moment. “Loud. Cocky. Real asshole. Not like I am. I’m funny. He just pissed people off.” 

Jesús laughs. It’s bitter, but also a relief. The most helpful pills are often the hardest to swallow. “I’ll bet he has it rough, then. There’s no way that the two of us are getting along back there.”

Greer laughs back, and it’s not until later that Jesús realizes how good it felt to be laughing  _ together _ , as opposed to at a one-sided jab. “I’ll fuckin’ bet he is. Take it I’m a bit of a card there too?”

“Fewer sharp edges,” Jesús replies, both meanings of the term applicable. “But still definitely you.”

“Only thing I can be.” Then, the moment is over, and she waves a hand at him. “Now get outta here, Koch. Don’t be coming back. And tell Ziwa that they owe me a coffee.”

Jesús’s grin hasn’t faded when he says “Will do,” and remains long after he’s closed the door behind him and set off down the boardwalk street.


End file.
